


Matters of the Heart

by VictoriaAGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Background Case, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaAGrey/pseuds/VictoriaAGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Watson moves back into 221B, Holmes is presented with a case that makes Watson reconsider the nature of their relationship.</p>
<p>///Assume this takes place in the Victorian world Sherlock envisioned in TAB and you're good to go.///</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For Mel, who is still graciously accepting this birthday gift even though my trashy ass is literally delivering it months late <3

Watson’s marriage fell apart not three months after the closure of the case of The Abominable Bride. Mary was sitting across from him at the breakfast table reading his write up of the events in The Strand when she made a remark about Holmes’ drug habit. Not taking kindly to her words, but not wanting to shatter the fragile equilibrium they had achieved, Watson stiffly replied that his habit was out of his control. A sparkle of something unknown to him lit up her eyes and she stated with a frank, sarcastic tone that he might better control it if he were to move back in with him. Unable to hold his tongue, as he was wont to do when it came to someone disparaging his friend, Watson bit back that she was very likely right. When he returned from work that night, it was to his suitcases packed at the foot of the staircase and a note from Mary telling him to go home. It was signed with a crimson kiss.

Placing his suitcases on the floor and opening the door to the heart of 221B, Watson expected to receive anything from an all-knowing smirk up to a humiliating deduction about how his wife had banished him from his own house. What he got was Holmes telling him to prepare himself a pipe as he took his suitcases up to what had once served as his room. The shame Watson felt for his role in his destroyed marriage quickly retreated into the shadows as he and Holmes silently smoked their pipes until the sun broke the horizon in bursts of golden rays. It was only once he woke from a nap at midday that he realized Holmes had not simply brought his suitcases to his room; he had unpacked them, neatly hanging the scant amount of clothes he brought in the wardrobe. If a watery smile graced his face, no one would ever know.

Days bled into weeks and ultimately months. While Watson had not seen divorce as an option - what with them not having grounds nor wanting to deal with the scandalous open court proceedings and tarnished reputations – Mary did. Mycroft and his connections in the government had allowed them a quiet dissolution to their marriage and she left the country immediately after it had been granted. Where she went, he still had no idea. She had taken nothing and wanted nothing, leaving him with the burden of the house. It was with a smile that he sold it for a hefty profit, knowing he was already living in his true home. Watson thought it would have been difficult to assimilate to sharing rooms with Holmes again, but with a drop of embarrassment, he realized he more often than not thought about how grateful he was to no longer have to juggle his and Holmes’ adventures with an increasingly irritable wife.

And oh, the adventures they had! Snakes as murder weapons, coded messages of death, arsons that hid homicides, supposed vampires moving amongst the living. It was brilliant and Watson had never seen Holmes happier. He smiled brighter, wasn’t as cutting with his deductions, and he - slowly, but surely - dropped his drug habit. Also, much to Watson’s surprise, he published his own write up of The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. It didn’t sell as well as his did, but Holmes laughed at the figures and said _Of course it didn’t! The commonwealth is enchanted with your appallingly romantic retellings, not the work behind them!_ Watson was of the opinion that he had just been insulted, but before he could start a row with him, he saw the affectionate smile Holmes was giving him. He closed his mouth then and merely smiled back.

It was close to a year after he moved back in when Sir Scott Randall, the youngest man to ever hold a seat in Parliament, barged into 221B and demanded a private conference with Holmes. Watson had moved to get out of his chair and leave the room, but Holmes insisted he stay and gave Randall his most ardent assurances that whatever he had to say could be said in front of Watson. Randall was reluctant, but after a few minutes of Holmes continuing to refuse to dismiss Watson, he collapsed into the client’s chair he was offered. He radiated nervous energy and Watson offered him a drink to calm his nerves; he very politely refused.

“Mr. Holmes, I need your help,” Randall said as he ran his hands through his disheveled hair.

“I had surmised as much.”

“Holmes,” Watson lightly chastised.

Holmes tried again, this time with more concern in his voice, however initially forced. “What matter brings you to us today?”

“Sirs, this is a concern of the upmost confidentiality. I have been assured by a friend that you will not speak of this to another soul and it is because of those assurances that I sit before you today.”

“A concern of such privacy that you can’t take it to Scotland Yard, which you naturally have connections to because of your career. You fear incrimination.”

“I fear losing everything, Mr. Holmes.” His handsome features were distorted by soul deep worry. Watson couldn’t recall ever having seen anyone in their quarters so shaken and he couldn’t help but respect Randall when he pulled himself upright in an attempt to compose himself. “My life is standing on the edge of a blade I do not hold.”

“Who holds the blade?”

“A man. One named Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Watson shot Holmes a look. They had been hearing rumblings about the man for months, but had not been able to bring him to justice. Evidence had a way of getting “lost” in his cases and witnesses turning up dead. Watson had steadily seen Holmes spiral downward into a sort of obsession with Magnussen, looking for him to make any mistake so he could get him behind bars. There was a hard glint in Holmes’ eyes when he turned back to Randall. If he hadn’t been before, he was completely invested in the proceedings now.

“What does he have?”

“Letters. They were stolen from my home a month ago. After church this past Sunday, I found him waiting for me in my home office. He then threatened me with their release to Scotland Yard if I vote in favor of a financial overhaul to be presented in the coming week, which I have stated I support.”

“Do these letters contain government secrets?”

“No.”

Watson tapped his forefinger against his lips in an unconscious gesture of concentration. “Then why would he send them to Scotland Yard?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes’ back straighten as it did when he had unraveled an especially complicated puzzle. Wondering what on Earth he had realized, he turned to question him, but then he saw the look in his eyes. The hard, analytical glint that had been there was gone, replaced by surprise and something that looked suspiciously like fear. His face had also softened and his tone became soothing. Watson was struck speechless by his genuine display of compassion.

“How explicit are they?”

“Enough.” Randall’s bottom lip shook and he seemed to be on the verge of tears, but he refused to shed them. “Please, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I beg of you. Do not persecute me in my moment of desperation. I understand if you don’t -”

“We’ll take your case.”

“Wait,” Watson interjected. Both Holmes and Randall turned to face him. “I don’t understand. What is in those letters that could see you arrested?”

“The letters are of a romantic nature.”

“To whom? A married woman?”

“Watson,” Holmes said to him in the same soothing tone. There was a hint of hesitation in his pursed lips. “His lover is not a woman.”

Understanding came to Watson and he felt like such a fool. Consorting with a married woman, while disreputable, was not an actionable offense in the eyes of the law. But having a male lover was; enough so that he would lose his job and likely be sentenced to years of hard labor if convicted. Watson’s heart broke for the man, knowing firsthand what it meant to vigorously hide such an intrinsic part of his identity.

“My apologies, Mr. Randall,” Watson said contritely and, trying for levity, he added, “I can certainly see why you wouldn’t want them released.”

Randall’s distress dissipated marginally when he chuckled softly, not looking anguished for the first time since his arrival. “I’m sure it would prove to be more than a slight inconvenience for my partner and me.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Approaching six years. Sadly, most of that time has been spent apart. He’s a military man, you see. Off leading campaigns while I’m here leading a different sort. Those letters are our primary form of correspondence and to find them missing was disconcerting in more ways than one.”

“We’ll get those letters back for you, I promise. You have my word.”

“I find myself at a loss for a way to adequately express my appreciation for your understanding. You’re both extraordinary men, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. What you are doing for me is beyond mere words of gratitude.”

“Our reward is in helping to free you of this vile man. We’ll alert you when we have retrieved the letters.”

Watson stood to dismiss Randall. When he rose from his seat, Randall took his hand in his and shook it vigorously, thanking him and Holmes for their willingness to take the case. Holmes did not stand to say goodbye, he looked to already be sifting through his mind palace for everything he had on Magnussen and how Randall fell into his plans, but he did shake Randall’s proffered hand before he departed. The room was filled with thoughtful silence then that had Watson reaching for the decanter.

“You continue to amaze me, Watson.”

Drinking from his tumbler, he swallowed the scotch that burned its way down his throat. He felt wounded by Holmes’ statement, thinking back to the hesitation he saw in him before he revealed that Randall’s lover was a man. Pouring himself another glass, he spoke to Holmes and didn’t bother to cover the hurt in his voice.

“I may fear many things, Holmes, but a man loving another man is not one of them.”

Holmes blinked rapidly at him, as he was prone to do when he was exiting his mind palace, and stared at him regretfully. He opened and closed his mouth several times, which was the closest Watson believed he had ever seen him to wordlessness.

“You think I would have learned by now to never doubt you when it comes to matters of the heart. Please accept my sincerest apologies, Watson.”

It was unusual for Holmes to apologize; in fact, Watson couldn’t remember the last time he apologized for anything. The fact that he was doing so now spoke volumes to him and he nodded his acceptance, relief evident on Holmes’ face. Lifting the decanter, he held it in such a way to get his attention.

“Scotch?”

“Please.”

Several hours passed in complete silence, Holmes’ behavior growing increasingly bizarre as the time passed. When he was silent he could be restive, but the twitching of his fingers and the irritable expression which would ghost across his face was far from normal. Not one to drink often or in excess when he did, Watson grew concerned when Holmes drank three glasses in as many hours. He was likely not drunk, but the drinking was alarming in and of itself. The Persian slipper he used to stow away his tobacco was rapidly losing stock, tobacco ash littering the small table beside his chair. Unable to remain quiet any longer, Watson put his book aside and sat forward in his chair.

“Holmes.”

Aside from a flick of his eyes in his direction, he showed no outward response.

“Holmes.”

“You’ve got questions.”

The anxious undercurrent of his tone put Watson on pins and needles. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m hardly prone to states of _nervousness_.” The utter contempt of his words alerted Watson that he was right and he needed to get to the bottom of the matter before whatever it was exploded in spectacular fashion.

“You’ve not been right since the gentleman left.”

“Five years we’ve been together, Watson. I should think you would’ve grown more adept at sensing my contemplative phases.”

“I have, and this isn’t one of them.” Holmes’ lips thinned as he pressed them together in evident agitation. “Is it the case? Magnussen?”

“Magnussen is a shark who preys on people’s secrets. What he’s doing now is hardly news.”

“True, but you’ve never been so bothered before. Is it the nature of this man’s secrets that has plunged you into a black mood?”

Holmes laughed mirthlessly. “Black mood? Is that what you call them?”

“Is it because he’s a homosexual?”

The bald faced question gave Holmes pause. He was a first rate deflector and adept at manipulating syntax, but when under direct questioning, he faltered. Clasping his hands in front of him, Watson leaned forward and attempted to give an air of self-assurance and comfort in the hope that it would calm Holmes.

“I understand why you may feel an affinity towards Mr. Randall.”

“Do you,” Holmes asked in such a way that it was not a question, hoping Watson would cease asking his questions and drop his line of inquiry. His fingers tightened around his glass and his eyes were unreadable.

“He’s a man of great importance and intelligence. Certain facets of his life compel him to keep secrets and that puts him on the fringes of society.” Watson made sure to keep his voice gentle. “I can see how you would find similarities between the two of you and that would make you naturally defensive of him.”

“Mr. Randall has managed to find a way to be with the man he loves, only for Magnussen to come along and sink his teeth into it. So little is sacred in our world, Watson, and it is upon those few matters which he feasts. Remember my words, dear friend, if I were to stumble upon his murder, I would be more likely to cheer than come to his aid.”

The open anger and hurt of his tone made Watson’s chest ache. “We’ll stop him, Holmes. This dastardly man shall one day meet the fate he is due and we will be the ones to ensure it. Mr. Randall and his partner will see justice served.”

“I wish I shared in your assurances.”

A heavy silence descended upon them once more and Watson sat back in his chair, his pipe resting between his lips as he mulled over Holmes’ words. From one sentence to the next, he fluctuated between bitterly venomous to unmitigated fury. Magnussen had a way of drudging up the worst parts of Holmes’ personality, but never had he expressed such emotions through an empathetic connection with a client. It was as if he lived and breathed the man’s sorrow and fear as if it were his own. Watson’s heart clinched in sympathetic grief when he thought on how despondent Holmes sounded when he spoke of Randall’s ability to be with the man he loves, only for an outside source to try and tear them apart. He sounded almost familiar with the feeling.

Watson’s breath caught as he reflected upon that final thought. The world he had so carefully crafted around himself and Holmes - one filled with love and affection, but ultimately devoid of the kind he wished to show – was crumbling before his eyes. Every charged moment between them flashed before him in vibrant color, the images so sharp and exploding with color it was as if he had lived through them in black and white until now.

Holmes reluctance to speak of past lovers and his complete lack of them during the time of their acquaintance, the brightness of his smiles once he’d returned to share the rooms of Baker St., his easy agreement to wean off of the drugs under his care. The despondence of his voice when he spoke of Randall’s tragedy was not born of simple empathy; it was a rumination on experienced heartbreak.

The heart encased in Watson’s breast beat wildly as he looked to his friend sitting opposite him. What he was contemplating was dangerous; illegal in the eyes of the law, not to mention the waste it would lay upon their relationship if he was wrong. As he pondered over what to do, he kept thinking not of his tone in speaking to Randall or his distraught words, but of all the times he looked up from his breakfast or his writing to see Holmes’ eyes resting on him. He’d never thought on it before, perhaps always knowing what it meant and unwilling to face its meaning quite yet, but he could remember the love he felt in those glances. They proved Holmes was a man, one with feelings that he deserved to have returned. With his decision made, Watson grasped for the bravery of the soldier, or stupidity depending on how his actions were received.

Placing his pipe on the side table next to him, Watson stood from his chair and looked towards Holmes. He was watching him with interest, similar to the way he watched his experiments whose results he could not predict. The furrow of his brow deepened as Watson turned fully to face him and he cocked his head to the side, his pipe sitting forgotten in his hand.

“Watson?”

The few steps he took to close the distance between himself and Holmes were some of the heaviest of his life. Holmes head tilted back as he approached, the effect being that he was now looking up at Watson as he stood between his parted legs.

Holmes breathless voice carried with it notes of wonder and trepidation. “Watson, what are you doing?”

Containing the few wisps of hesitation he still felt, Watson leaned forward until he was hovering inches over Holmes, his hands gripping the back of his chair on either side of his head, which was now resting against the back due to him sliding down in his chair as their positions changed. Watson could see the black of Holmes’ eyes expand to engulf the blue as their mingled breaths danced between them, sharing space in an intimate exchange of air as their intakes became ever more shallow.

“Watson – John, think on what you’re doing,” Holmes pleaded, the desperation of his tone shaking loose and making his words tumble over each other.

“I am.”

Leaning in slowly was how Watson gave Holmes time to stop him if he did not truly want what he was proposing, but he did no such thing. He closed his eyes and tilted his head to accommodate the angle Watson was at, his chest rising and falling quickly with his breaths. Watson closed his eyes in turn and as his nose brushed against Holmes’, his breath shuddered between them. Never had he allowed himself to contemplate in earnest what it would mean for him to take this step with Holmes and now that he had, the emotions colliding within his chest drowned him in their intensity. The love he had for Holmes grew impossibly larger and his heart swelled in response.

As their lips brushed for the first time - Watson basking in finally tasting the Cupid’s bow which haunted his dreams - Holmes’ lips pursed to lock them in their first kiss. Watson returned the pressure, leaning in to seal their lips more firmly together.  As they continued to give each other small, exploratory kisses, Watson heard Holmes drop his pipe before hands tentatively cupped his head, the cautious nature of the action speaking to how out of his element he was. The firm, but chaste kisses soon grew deeper when he rolled Holmes’ bottom lip between his and he sighed, the sound increasing the speed of the blood pumping through his veins.

The heated nature of the kiss as their tongues entwined made Watson grow bold. Removing his right hand from the back of the chair, he moved his hand down Holmes’ elegant neck and over his chest to wear he could feel his heart beat against his palm. As his hand moved lower, he could feel the muscles under his waistcoat twitch in anticipation. When Watson’s hand grazed over Holmes’ trousers and evident hardness, Holmes broke the kiss.

“Oh!” He sounded almost surprised by the pleasure he was deriving from the movement of Watson’s hand. “John.”

“Sherlock.”

With a final, hard kiss, Watson pushed himself back and sunk to his knees between Holmes’ legs.

“John, you don’t – you don’t have to do anything more. I was quite satisfied with the kissing alone.”

If there was ever a doubt in his mind as to whether Holmes was still untouched, he got his answer in his painfully honest, almost shy tone. Watson hoped his smile would soothe Holmes as he worked to remove his shoes.

“As was I. But there’s something I’ve been wanting to do to you for ages.”

Color rose in Holmes’ cheeks while he watched Watson’s fingers expertly undo the fastenings of his trousers and work them and his undergarments off his legs. Presented with Holmes bare from the waist down, Watson luxuriated in the expanse of pale skin before him. Holmes was beautiful and he wanted to taste every inch of him. Watson felt his leg muscles flex as he placed a reverential kiss on his inner-thigh and trail his hands over his calves.

“John, please.”

Holmes’ voice breathlessly breaking over the plea halted any plans Watson had of prolonging the experience. There would be time for such perusing later, he reasoned. Taking Holmes’ hardness in hand for the first time, Watson watched his reaction and reveled in his whole body shudder. Their eyes were fixed on each other and Watson felt himself grow harder with the knowledge of having all of Holmes’ considerable brain power focused on him. It was far more intoxicating than any scotch he could imbibe.

At first touch of his tongue to the tip of Holmes’ hardness, Holmes’ loudly groaned and looked away, unable to handle watching the intimacy of Watson taking him in mouth. Moving his mouth down over Holmes’ hardness until it hit the back of his throat, Watson sighed knowing how the sensation would feel and Holmes’ responded by grinding his hips into his chair and gripping the arms tightly between his fingers. He was so charmingly responsive, physically as well as vocally, that Watson found himself eagerly chasing his release.

They quickly developed a rhythm. When Watson moved his mouth down, Holmes thrust upward and the reverse when he pulled back, Watson controlling the movement with his grip on Holmes’ hips. He knew Holmes’ wasn’t likely to last long, but after only a few minutes, Watson tasted the beginnings of his release as his hips stuttered in their tempo.

“Oh, God, I think – Oh, John.”

Watson hollowed his cheeks as he sucked on Holmes and with a moan that sounded all the more sinful cried in his sonorous voice, he achieved orgasm and Watson swallowed around him, cataloguing the bitter taste on his palate.

“John,” Holmes’ said as he grabbed Watson’s arms. “Up. Come.”

Rising to straddling his hips, Watson kissed Holmes fiercely as he freed himself from his trousers, Holmes’ trembling hand replacing his own to move over his hardness. There was an utter lack of finesse in his movements, but that only made Holmes’ fervor and determination all the more attractive. When Watson reached his release, he cried out into Holmes’ mouth, anchored only by Holmes’ hand on his hip as he continued to touch him.

“Christ, Sherlock.” Watson tried valiantly to catch his breath. “You okay?”

“That was... good.”

They both chuckled at his understatement and then kissed at a leisurely pace. Watson sat back on Holmes’ thighs and watched as he observed his release on his hand. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, Holmes tasted Watson’s release, curious as ever and keen to try new things.

“And how was that?”

“Surprisingly okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know that this fic is about a million miles away from perfect so please be kind!
> 
> Thank you for your kudos, comments, critiques, angry banshee screams, or whatever you leave for me here or at my Tumblr ***[mycroft-silently-judges-you](http://mycroft-silently-judges-you.tumblr.com)***


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